


time makes you bolder

by johnwtfson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Old-Age Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwtfson/pseuds/johnwtfson
Summary: Growing old was something people did. They grew up, and then grew old. It was a natural part of life. But Sherlock's life had been anything but natural. He had never planned to grow old, and he certainly never planned to survive past forty-five. He hadn't meant to grow old. It just sort of happened.





	

"I've been afraid of changing,  
'Cause I build my life around you.  
But time makes you bolder,  
Even children get older,  
And I'm getting older too."  
Landslide - Fleetwood Mac

Half his head was grey. Well, silver. John told him it was silver after he muttered his own vain complaints, laughing that at sixty, he couldn't really expect to still have a full head of black curls anyway. John himself wore his greying hair easily, looking only slightly different to how he looked before growing old. Sure, he had permanent laughter lines, and crows feet by his eyes, and sometimes, he forgot silly little things, like the date, and the name of his favourite TV program. But he was still John. And Sherlock was still Sherlock. 

Sherlock ran his fingers through his fading hair, meeting the tired eyes in his reflection. Sixty. It didn't sound right. Sherlock Holmes, sixty years old. 

Growing old was something people did. They grew up, and then grew old. It was a natural part of life. 

But Sherlock's life had been anything but natural. He had never planned to grow old, and he certainly never planned to survive past forty-five. 

He hadn't meant to grow old. It just sort of happened. 

His tired eyes fell, and his greying head drooped slightly. 

\---

"Pasta or curry tonight?"

It was a Thursday. Thursday meant TV night. John finished at the clinic early, and Sherlock put his experiments and cases aside for the evening. John cooked. Sherlock picked a channel. They ate and commentated whatever program Sherlock selected. All in all, it was Sherlock's favourite, and only, tradition. 

"I don't mind," Sherlock lied, pressing the downwards triangle button on his remote and absently surfing through channels. 

"No, you always mind," John said, sounding angry, but when Sherlock looked up, he was smiling. "Curry?"

"Please," Sherlock smirked. 

John cooked to the sound of the radio, letting late night Dean Martin songs flood the flat and mix with the quiet humming of the TV. Sherlock watched him dance around the kitchen, able to smell the aroma of curry powder. He was overcome with a warm and weird feeling of domesticity, and he was both shocked and horrified to feel himself tearing up at it. 

He made a choking noise, which made John look over. "You okay?"

All he could do was nod and flee for the bathroom, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Behind the locked toilet door, he sunk and sobbed silently. 

He brought his hands to his face and found his cheeks were wet. Tears. Over the simple sight of John cooking. Something that happened every Thursday. Stranger things had happened, and yet, Sherlock was crying. 

There was a knock at the door. "Sherlock?"

"I'm fine, John. Just nausea," Sherlock lied, once again. He reached for the handle on the toilet and flushed it, to prove his point. He wiped his eyes and and stood up before opening the door. 

"See? All better," he smiled. John's eyes met his, and Sherlock focused on the lines under his eyes. John looked just as tired as him. 

"Your eyes are red," John said. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock."

"I'm aware," Sherlock sighed. "Please. Drop it, John."

His eyes searched Sherlock's face, unsure. "Okay. Curry's ready."

John waited for him to leave the bathroom, following him into the living room while his eyes still searched Sherlock. They ate the curry quietly, letting the TV do all the talking instead, for once. 

\---

Sherlock was awake the next morning to see John off for work, having made them both tea and breakfast before hand. Ever since Mrs Hudson had died eleven years before, John had become exceedingly good at tending to Sherlock's whims. And Sherlock, in return, had become exceedingly good at thanking him. 

It was over tea and toast that John decided to inform Sherlock of his next big life plan. 

"I've been doing some thinking, Sherlock," John started. Sherlock smirked into his tea. 

"That's dangerous, John, why on Earth would you do such a thing?"

John responded with a rolling of eyes. "As you know, I've worked at the clinic for twenty three years now. After... Well, you remember."

Sherlock did remember. Mary Morstan was a thing of the past that John didn't enjoy discussing. The last they had seen of her had been after finishing the divorce papers, before she had been locked away. It had all been one big lie; the relationship, the marriage, the baby - all Moriarty's schemes, even after death. Sherlock knew it still hurt John to think about, for reasons he didn't like to speculate on. 

"Anyways, I was talking to my accountant the other day... I think I'm going to retire. Soon, anyways."

Sherlock studied his face for signs of joking. There were none. 

"Why?" Sherlock asked, swallowing a mouthful of toast. 

"Well... I rather thought I could join you again. Solve crimes with you in retirement," John said. "If you'll have me, again."

Sherlock wanted to say yes, a thousand times yes, of course. 

"Don't ordinary people travel, or take up knitting?" Sherlock remarked. 

"Since when were we ordinary?" 

John held his gaze, smiling lightly. Sherlock broke first, smiling softly into his tea. 

"Of course I'll have you. Like I'd ever say no."

John's eyes were full of softness; it was the kind of fondness Sherlock remembered seeing in him after their first case together. It made him feel all sorts of emotions, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from repeating the night before's episode. 

"You didn't think I would want to spend the rest of my old age with you, did you?" John asked, eyes fixed on Sherlock. 

He just looked away, finishing his tea. "You're going to be late, Doctor."

\---

When John came home that night, Sherlock had prepared a pasta meal for them. It wasn't anything flashy, but it was edible and reasonable-tasting, and he knew John was grateful for the night off. 

"Want to watch a movie tonight?" Sherlock asked, after swallowing a glass of wine. 

"No," John half-groaned. 

"Why not?" 

"You'll fall asleep half way through, you always do," John sighed. 

Ever since they had moved Mrs Hudson's couch into ther apartment, Sherlock had found himself asleep on it on multiple occasions. Every moving night seemed to end with Sherlock fast asleep beside John before the movie was even over. 

Sherlock pouted. "You can pick?"

John considered it. "Fine. But when you fall asleep, I'm not going out of my way to make sure you stay asleep."

Sherlock knew he was lying, and sure enough, after twenty minutes of 'Inglorious Basterds', he felt himself dozing off. With his head heavy with the want to sleep and his stomach full of wine and pasta, he ended up slumped against John, snoring softly in his ear. 

He didn't wake up until the early hours of the morning, John asleep next to him, head resting uncomfortably on the top of the couch. Sherlock did his best to rearrange him into a much more comfortable position without waking him, leaving him leaning against the arm of the chair, before slumping against him once again and resuming his slumber. 

\---

"I bought milk," Sherlock called, strolling into the flat and placing the jugs of milk in the fridge. 

John perked up from his seat on his armchair, tearing his eyes of the newspaper. Looking at Sherlock over the top of his reading glasses, Sherlock couldn't help but think about what a nice old man he made. "We weren't out of milk, were we?"

Sherlock blushed sheepishly. "Whatever happened to it, it's no use crying over it."

John rolled his eyes and resumed reading his paper, scrunching his nose to move his glasses back up to the tip of his nose. It was so remarkably John that Sherlock stood frozen with a loaf of bread in his hands, unable to look away or process the ridiculously endearing movement John had just performed. Then John coughed, and Sherlock returned to putting the remaining groceries away, before making them both tea. 

When he set the mug on the coffee table by John's chair, he stared at it. "What's gotten into you lately?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Not that I don't appreciate you making tea, and buying milk, and allowing me to sleep comfortably on the couch, and making pasta, and crying in the bathroom for no explicable reason, but it's very... Unusual. Are you okay, Sherlock? You're not..."

"What?" Sherlock asked sharply. Don't say in love. Don't say in love. Don't say...

"Dying of something, are you?"

John's face was pressed with genuine concern, and a hint of sadness, and it was all so bizaare that Sherlock just smiled. 

"No, John. Fear not. You won't be rid of me so quickly," he chuckled, sipping his own tea. 

John stared at him and broke into a smile. "Then what? What's made you act so... Differently?"

Sherlock's lips quirked back up into a smile. "I'm getting older, John. So are you."

\---

John recieved the fateful letter in the mail on a Wednesday. Hidden amongst the usual bills and junk catalogues, he found the letter from the jail. 

The woman he knew as Mary Morstan had died. 

Expected death, the letter said. Died in the hospital on site. Had been diagnosed with breast cancer for months. Funeral service on the upcoming Monday. 

Sherlock found him in his armchair, staring at the letter with a watery gaze. "John?"

He passed him the letter slowly. "She's dead, Sherlock."

23 years of ignorant bliss came crumbling down from one letter. Anita Guinevere Rosa-Armitage had been a buried ghost of their pasts, until she had actually become a ghost, ready to be buried. Sherlock reread the letter, before carefully studying John.

"Are you going to-"

"Will anyone else attend? Is there anyone left to mourn her?" John whispered. "I can't not go, Sherlock."

He nodded, placing the letter back down on the coffee table. "John, I... I'm sorry."

He gently squeezed John's shoulder, letting his hand linger for a moment, before returning to his bedroom. He had no idea what to think, and luckily, all alone, he didn't have to. 

\---

John left for the funeral service at 1:00pm, dressed in his black suit and face void of readable emotion. Sherlock decided against seeing him off, knowing he would be back at 3:00pm anyways. With the house empty, Sherlock paced and dug through old folders in their bookshelves, clawing at pieces of nostalgia to try and distract him from the emptiness of the flat. It wasn't like the times John would go to work; it was cold and uncomfortable and it didn't feel right. 

He rifled through old photographs, unearthing an ancient snap from John and Mary's wedding. It was a nice photo of the bride and groom, back before everything was revealed and dynamics shifted. Mary looked happy. Sherlock hadn't seen her looking so happy since that day; beyond the wedding, it was either looks of annoyance, or anger, or feeble and pointless attempts at remorse. A lump began to form in his throat again, and this time, he decided to simply cry on the floor rather than make it to the bathroom. 

\---

"I'm home."

John tossed his coat on the couch, face void of emotions. He turned and placed the service booklet on the mantle, catching sight of himself in the mirror above. Sherlock was right. He was getting older. Heck, he was already old. 

Sherlock had slinked onto the couch while John had been staring, folding his legs up to sit his whole body on the couch. Turning, John gave him a small smile. 

"You would have enjoyed it," he said. 

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I wouldn't have."

John gave a forced laugh. "Fair enough."

He sat down next to Sherlock and they both fell into comfortable silence. Their thoughts were plagued with Mary and death and how this was going to be the norm now; they were going to watch friends grow old and sick and go to their funerals instead of their weddings. It was just another part of life, but a part that neither had expected to come so soon. 

\---

It was 2:36am. Sherlock's eyes were sore, and the red digits on his alarm clock had seared into his brain. He hadn't been hit with insomnia for a while, and it was much more uncomfortable than he remembered. 

Making a chaste decision, he got out of bed and walked the distance between his bedroom and John's. The door creaked ever so slightly behind him upon entering, making John look around wildly. 

"Sherlock? That you?" he called, voice slurred and tired. 

"I couldn't sleep. I'm sorry."

Sherlock stood at the end of John's bed, unsure of what to do next. He wasn't really sure why he had entered John's bedroom at such an hour, and he certainly had no idea what do to next. 

"Don't be sorry. Do you need anything?" John asked. 

Sherlock sat on the end of the bed. "You should go back to sleep, John. You've had a tough day. You've got work tomorrow."

"I'll call in sick. I'm going to retire soon, anyways. Sherlock, talk to me."

Sherlock assumed the image of him with red eyes in the bathroom was still stuck in John's head, even after all that had happened since. He sighed. "I just didn't want to be alone. I... I keep thinking about it all. Mary. You. Death. I don't want to be alone tonight."

He could just make out John's face, soft and smiling, in the darkness. There was a rustling of sheets being pulled back, before he said, "Get in."

"John, I..."

"I'm sixty two, Sherlock. I live alone with my best friend who I spend almost all my time in the company of. My ex wife died recently, and I'm going to die too, probably sooner rather than later. I'll most likely die in my sleep, and I'd rather do that next to someone I love. Wouldn't you?"

There was silence, followed by the sound of Sherlock getting into John's bed and John pulling him close to his chest. 

"I love you, too."

\---

The next morning, they both brushed their teeth in the same bathroom, looking at each other in the same mirror. Sherlock's hair was still grey, and John's eyes were still tired, and they were both still old. 

But after John finished brushing his teeth, he gave Sherlock a soft kiss on the side of his head and let his fingers linger on his shoulder before going to make them breakfast, and Sherlock could've sworn he looked at least ten years younger. And, after finishing up himself, he looked at himself and could've sworn the same. 

They were both going to die one day, but John loved him. And he loved John. And as the sound of Dean Martin started from the kitchen, Sherlock realised that they had all the time in the world to tell each other that. 

And he left the bathroom to go do exactly that.


End file.
